


See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:25:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8292349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: The truest help we can render an afflicted man is not to take his burden from him, but to call out his best energy, that he may be able to bear the burden. —Phillips BrooksMaedhros never jumps, and Maglor never wanders.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uumuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/gifts).



His brother’s scream was, in many ways, the worst part—worse even than the blistering agony in his palm, than the knowledge of all they'd destroyed to get to this point, than the lingering feeling that if only he'd done things differently somehow it would not have come out this way.

Maedhros clenched his jaw, tears running freely down his cheeks, and summoned every ounce of hard-hearted cruelty he had ever possessed—still, it was nearly impossible to hear Maglor suffer so. “ _Bear it_ ,” he barked in his brother’s ear, harsher than he felt.

Maglor closed his teeth on the pain, but his lips still drew back in a grimace, and he went on keening as they fled. His voice was ever his weapon, and though Maedhros was largely immune to its power, just now it was flaying him open. And besides, it echoed off the rocks, no doubt marking their location to any unfriendly ears within miles.

Maedhros did the only thing he could think to do. He threw his arm around Maglor’s neck—holding him in place with the crook of his elbow, careful not to let the burning jewel in his fist make contact—and smothered the sound with his own lips.

He was not expecting the _reverberation_. His jaw, his sinuses, his eye-sockets, every resonant place in his skull buzzed with the power of it; for a moment, he was insensate. Somehow he clung on, and finally Maglor managed to quiet himself, sobbing quietly against Maedhros’ mouth. He might have drawn away then, but Maglor put both arms around him, pulling at him like a swimmer being dragged under.

Maglor was not as cautious about his own Silmaril—Maedhros could feel it branding his back, even through his cloak and clothing, but the screaming had stopped. He thought he could bear anything as long as the screaming was over.

Maglor kissed him like a lover, like a bride, like a sweetheart had once kissed him and pleaded with him to stay. What had they not done already to survive? This was only one thing more, and one that paled in significance beside the others. Maedhros let him; and further yet, he returned it with passion of his own.

When they broke, Maglor pressed his forehead to Maedhros’ shoulder, and Maedhros held him carefully. It was not weakness that made his brother suffer so. Ever since the burning of the ships, Maedhros had survived by sloughing away the fragments of his emotions little by little; until everything was dulled just a bit at the edges, numbed into bearable. But Maglor needed to feel things keenly to be what he was. Not for nothing was he lauded as the greatest poet of the Noldor and their fairest singer. If he had done as Maedhros did, he would not be half so fearsome as he was; and so he suffered this at its full power.

But they needed to be getting on. Unthinkable to have come this far, to be finally holding their very doom in their hands, and be set upon by wolves or orcs or brigands. “Macalaurë,” Maedhros said softly, and then, “ _Cáno_.”

They had not used those names for time out of mind. But Maedhros called to his brother in the names of their childhood, of their manhood before the Oath, and Maglor came alive again, as if resurfacing.

“I can bear it,” he whispered hoarsely, lifting his head. They went on.

He spoke the truth. In fact it was Maedhros who broke first.

He was still sore at the back of the shoulder where Maglor’s gem had burnt, and every time it flexed or pulled—which was constantly—the echoes of misery rippled outwards, combining unbearably with the agony thrumming up his arm. He stumbled, at last, exhausted and distracted by the constant pain, and went down hard when he could not catch himself, his single hand unusable while it was clenched around his awful prize. He tried to rise, but his limbs would not acknowledge the summons. All he could do was lie, spent but open-eyed, precisely where he had fallen. Doing anything else seemed like a puzzle too vastly difficult to even consider solving.

Maglor did not try and get him up. Instead he dropped down beside his brother on the ground, reaching for Maedhros’ hand with his free one, prying the fingers open. “Drop it,” Maedhros realized he was saying, over and over, “let it go, Nelyo, we’re safe here, no one is going to take it from you.” His grip tightened at first in reflexive panic— _it was his burden to carry, his and no one else’s_ —but then Maglor was putting power behind the words, and maybe he had never been as immune as he imagined because he found his fist opening without his say-so, spilling the gem out onto the dusty ground.

He had never felt such sweet relief: not even with his first sip of water after Thangorodrim.

He watched blankly as Maglor dropped a cloth of unknown provenance—a scarf, perhaps?—over the Silmaril, scooping it up with a swift but careful motion, and dropped his own beside it with a pained sound. He folded the scarf over to cover them, but there was only so much he could do to stifle their light.

Then he moved over, lifting Maedhros’ head into his lap, stroking his hair until Maedhros’ head cleared and he could think again, a little. He had chosen a good spot to fall, he thought wryly, glancing around; they were in the lee of a small hill, and if they stayed low like this they were shaded by brush. It might not hold up if someone were specifically searching, but he did not think that was the case.

When he sat up, Maglor caught him by the wrist, as if to hold him there. He winced at the grasp, and the fear that had briefly flashed across Maglor’s features melted into sympathy—or empathy, or apology. His grip eased, and he brought Maedhros’ hand up to his mouth, pressing tender kisses into the palm.

It was excruciating. Even the soft brush of lips was too much for his raw nerves. He did not draw his hand away, though he trembled, struggling to breathe; Maglor did not stop, though his dark gaze took in Maedhros’ suffering, and his own eyes were wet.

They watched one another, connected by tension and shared pain, by a long history of ruin, by an entire existence of everything crumbling even as they tried to shore it up. And then, connected by a thread of something else; at length, pain transmuted into something more. Not pleasure—maybe only a different kind of pain, but Maedhros’ breath came short again, and not for the same reason.

“Maglor—”

“No,” Maglor said sharply—

“ _Cáno_ ,” Maedhros amended, and was rewarded with the sudden heat of Maglor’s tongue stinging against the pads of his ravaged fingers, licking along his heart line and then down to his lifeline, laving across the worst of his burnt skin. It should have been blistered and charred, by the feel, by how terribly it sparked in his brain when Maglor pressed his tongue to the center of the palm, but there was no clear sign of burning. The skin was redder than usual, but smooth beneath Maglor’s mouth, no more scarred than it had ever been.

Maglor tongued gently over the web between thumb and forefinger, and something broke loose in Maedhros—he surged forward without knowing he was going to, dropping his hand out of the way just in time as their mouths crashed together.

Maglor hummed into the kiss, gentle though it was not, and this time the resonance was sweet enough that Maedhros ached with it. Everything that had once been theirs was fallen away now, but between them there was still memory; Maglor breathed it into him until he was full with it.

Bright mornings in Tirion, Maglor’s voice drifting in the window along with Laurelin’s light; or his first taste of battle-joy, Maglor at his side; or the first sight of Beleriand from the decks of the ships, Maglor singing a song of triumph and good fortune; or sparring together when Maedhros had finally trained up his left-handed swordsmanship to rival his lost right; or the years working together on Maedhros’ plans for a great union against the Enemy, believing with a kind of wild joy that Morgoth’s defeat was finally at hand. For the first time in a very long time the memories came to him untainted by what came after, their brightness unsullied by all the misery surrounding them.

They could not regain what was lost, but they could remember it.

“Come down beside me,” Maglor said, making a blanket of his cloak. “We’ll go on when you’re rested.”

Maedhros tucked in against his side. He did not intend to rest long, but Maglor began humming again; of course he would remember every song Maedhros had ever forgotten. Sleep crept up before he had the chance to resist it.

~

“Where shall we go?”

When Maedhros came to again, the twilight was all shaken off. It looked to be late morning by the sun’s angle. Maglor had stayed close by him, but had not been idle; there was some sort of green paste on both their hands, and the contents of Maglor’s pack were strewn around their little shelter, midway through being repacked in what was presumably a more efficient manner. Maedhros wasn’t sure if his brother was addressing him or merely musing out loud, so he kept quiet, letting wakefulness filter in slowly.

“I suppose I thought,” Maglor said, darkly, “that if we succeeded, we would be more welcome to cross the few bridges we’ve left unburned. And if we failed, there would be no need for an end destination.”

“Well, we succeeded,” Maedhros murmured, sitting up.

Maglor glanced at him sidelong and shook his head sadly. “No.” He rubbed his thumb across the opposite palm, smearing the paste in a circle, his gaze distant. “No, I really don’t think we did.” He turned away then, briskly tucking away the rest of his things, and slung the pack over his shoulder again. “Wherever we go, I think we ought to move on. The Maia didn’t believe we could bear it, you know, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t come looking for us once we fail to turn up offering them back with tearful apologies.”

 _Offering them back…?_ Maedhros had a moment of panic in his sleepy state—the Silmaril, where was the Silmaril? Maglor, who had soothed him through many of the same first-waking panics after Thangorodrim, read him easily.

“Hush, they’re right here, nothing is amiss.” Maedhros saw he was right—the scarf still covered them, but the glow was unmistakable. “I thought if we kept them wrapped, we might take turns having them in our packs, and ease the burden that way.”

Maedhros nodded, though he was thinking of the sore circle at the back of his shoulder. Would that be worse, with their packs shifting as they moved? Maybe it would be better if—

Maglor made an exclamation of surprise, and his head snapped up. The scarf was in Maglor’s hands—or, well, the remnants of it were. It seemed the gems had burned their way through, right to the ground. Their light seemed almost mocking, winking out from the moss.

“Apparently,” Maedhros said, with grim humor, “your clothing’s claim on our father’s work is also in dispute.”

“Don’t make me laugh at a time like this,” Maglor sighed, tossing the scraps at him. “I was working up a good despair.”

“There’s plenty of time for that yet.” Maedhros retrieved his own pack, cringing at the feel of the strap on his tender palm. He didn’t think Maglor’s salve had done much at all.

Maglor watched him, his expression serious again. “I wish you had your metal hand.”

“It’s in the cottage.” Curufin had made it for him, a beautifully articulated metal prosthetic. He didn’t wear it often these days—it was more suited to the Lord of Himring than to a warmongering wanderer. He’d left it behind in Ossiriand, thinking it unnecessary weight for a journey they needed to make in stealth. And thinking he would be able to return for it, if they achieved their aim.

It was foolish, but he regretted leaving it now, and not only for practical reasons. He didn’t know why he should feel sentimental about it—he had no keepsakes of any of their other lost brothers, and Curufin himself had been the least sentimental of the seven—but suddenly he felt its loss keenly, like a new grief.

Maglor gazed at him awhile longer, then nodded to himself, as if coming to a decision. “Well, it may yet be above water, and that wouldn’t be a bad place to lick our wounds if it is. I think I can get my bearings from here.”

“We won’t be welcomed there,” Maedhros growled.

Maglor laughed, but it wasn’t the light sound of earlier. “We won’t be welcomed anywhere, and you know it. Even before this we were barely tolerated.” He shouldered his pack and rose to his feet, moving over to where the Silmarils still lay, seeming to steel himself in preparation to take his up again. “I didn’t mean we should move back in and make friends with the neighbors. Only that if the cottage wasn’t drowned or ransacked, we might shore up our supplies, and make some sort of plan.”

“And see if my hand fares better than your scarf,” Maedhros said wryly.

“The Enemy was able to set them in a crown of metal, and he had less claim to them than ever we did. Why shouldn’t we at least try?”

Maedhros had no answer to that. He rose and joined his brother; their eyes met for a moment, then they reached as one to retrieve their stones.

It was worse today, Maedhros thought, burning on top of already-burnt skin. Maglor managed to hold back the scream this time, but the stifled, wounded-animal noise he made instead was only slightly less heartbreaking.

They went on.

~

The days blended together in long stretches of agony and short bursts of relief. They stuck as closely together as two children lost in the woods—Maedhros, perhaps fortunately, was in too much pain to consider the irony of the comparison. They touched often, sometimes walking with their shoulders pressed together, or with Maglor’s arm wound about Maedhros’ waist; without such comforts, Maedhros did not think either of them would have made it half so far.

Maedhros tried not to think of what they would do if the cottage was gone.

When they held the Silmarils, at least, there was no chance to think of anything. When they stopped to rest, laying down their burdens for a few hours, Maglor would spread his useless balm over their burnt hands—Maedhros suspected he was trying not to think of it either. He would take Maedhros’ hand between his own, hissing softly to himself as it rested against his own abused skin, and rub in the salve with too much pressure. At first Maedhros would barely be able to keep still with the pain; but always, eventually, it would transmute into something more desireable, his nerves singing a different song.

He would kiss Maglor, or Maglor would kiss him; and they would remember, for a time, what it was like to feel pain without suffering.

It was only comfort. Eru knew there was little enough of that left for the sons of Fëanor these days. But to Maedhros’ surprise, he felt a call to something more than comfort, a stirring he had not experienced in many years. He’d thought he had put such softer things aside to chase the Oath, or that he had simply aged beyond it—many of the Eldar did, after all, though he had no children to trigger the lessening. Still, he had not _wanted_ in a very long time, and if Maglor had he’d concealed it well.

He left it alone. It was only comfort, and besides, who had the energy for anything beyond their routine?

Still, he sometimes woke curled against Maglor’s back, half-buried in his brother’s wild dark hair, and let himself imagine what it might be like to ask for more.

The little stone cottage, when at last they found it, was neither drowned nor ransacked. The sea was much closer than it had been, and one of the walls had given way, presumably when the earth cracked—but still, it looked as inviting as any home ever had. It hadn’t even _been_ home when they were in it, only a temporary place, but the lower they were brought the more he learned appreciation for the things that had once seemed unimportant.

Maglor nearly wept when they sighted it. Maedhros would have turned away to give him privacy, but Maglor cared nothing for it. Instead, he hauled Maedhros inside, and they both laid their gems on the little stone hearth, gasping together in relief. It was some time after that before they accomplished any more; being under a roof, even a damaged one, was almost an unimaginable luxury, and they simply leaned against one another and rested.

At last Maedhros drew himself up and went to survey the damage. The collapsed wall was on what had been his side of the small space, and his bed was a lost cause, half-buried under the fallen stones and damaged by rain. He had to dig a bit in the debris, but the leather case that held his hand was still where he had left it, and looked to be undamaged. He carried it back to the hearth with him and sat again beside his brother.

Maglor had knocked an empty bird’s nest loose from the chimney, and was now laying it down as kindling for a fire.

“Is that wise?” Maedhros asked as he unfastened the latches on the case, in a tone that said very well what he thought.

“There’s no one else here to see it, didn’t you notice?” Maglor struck a spark from his flint and began nurturing the small flame that caught from it. “I imagine they went inland while everything was splitting and sinking. That’s what I would have done, not knowing whether the piece I was standing on would be the next to go under.”

Maedhros drew out the hand and its harness, checking them over. Nothing was damaged. There was a toggle at the inner wrist that, pushed one way, let him move the fingers into nearly any position a natural hand could take; then, pushed the other way, locked them in place. They moved easily, still greasy from the last time he had cleaned and oiled it before putting it away. He made a loose cage of the fingers before locking them in place, then laid it beside the stones.

Maglor kept working at the fire, but he glanced over. “Well?”

Maedhros sighed. It was a beautiful piece of work, but what good did it do to preserve a metal curiosity at the expense of their own skin? If the Silmarils burnt through it, well, they were no worse off than they had been. He took one of the stones, biting his tongue, then laid it gently inside the space formed by the curled fingers.

At first nothing happened. He held his breath, and Maglor did too, by the sound of it.

Then there was a blinding flash, and the smell of hot metal like their father’s forge.

Maglor swore. Maedhros scrubbed at his eyes with his fist, trying to will away the spots of light burned into them. When his vision cleared, he expected to see the hand destroyed, melted all the way through to the stone beneath.

Instead...instead the gem had sunken _into_ the hand. It almost looked intentional—it had settled against the base of the ring and middle finger, high and centered in the plane of the palm, as if a smith had set it there as decoration. Maedhros reached tentatively towards it. The metal was cool, and while he could still feel a residual echo through it of the pain of touching the gems directly, it was nothing to what they had endured since leaving the Maia’s camp. The toggle had fused in place, locking the fingers eternally in position, but Maedhros no longer minded.

He looked at Maglor, and Maglor looked back. Then, suddenly, they threw their arms around one another, crowing in sudden glee, heedless of their burnt hands.

“Try the other one,” Maedhros said, and could not keep the edge of giddiness and desperation from his voice.

Maglor seized it and set it in place, snatching his hand back as soon as it was down. They both covered their eyes this time, and none too soon—again the flash came, and the smell of heated metal, and when they looked the second Silmaril was sunken in securely at the base of the thumb. There was an open space on the heel of the hand where a third gem would have fit very nicely.

“Curufinwë’s work and Father’s,” Maglor breathed, taking up the hand to study it in awe.

“Do you think he knew?” Maedhros demanded. “Did he—could he have—”

Maglor only shook his head. “How can we guess?” And then he was dropping the metal hand on the hearth again, reaching for Maedhros’ flesh-and-blood one, jubilant.

Maedhros realized it had been _years_ since his brother had smiled like that. His breath came fast and shallow suddenly, and he tried to believe it was the excitement of finally taking a step forward instead of back; but then Maglor was kissing his palm the way he had that first dawn, and it wasn’t, it _wasn’t_.

It still hurt, worse than he could have imagined anything he _wanted_ hurting. And yet the transformation was nearly instant this time, pain to something else—pain to transcendence, pain to wholeness, pain to the sheer messy joy of being alive and intending to remain that way.

Maglor kissed his fingertips; Maedhros leaned in, splaying the fingers so they rested at either corner of Maglor’s lips, and kissed him between them. Maglor indulged him, and then—with a wicked turn to his expression—flickered his tongue out to tease the pad of one finger, then traced from there to Maedhros’ bottom lip before slipping into his mouth.

There was heat between them, though Maedhros tried to pretend it wasn’t so. Maglor had no similar reserve. He had kissed his way down to Maedhros’ jaw and showed every sign of continuing towards his neck when Maedhros halted him, drawing him back up to rest their foreheads together. Maglor panted in the silence, waiting, while Maedhros found his words.

“Don’t let your high spirits make you reckless. You don’t have to bear it any longer, Cáno. You don’t need this anymore.”

Maglor’s surprised laughter was warm and lyrical; Maedhros wanted to taste it, and did not let himself. “Still the mother hen, even now! Always making sure we have what we need.” He was not put off, though. He tilted his head up just slightly, so that his nose rubbed along Maedhros’ cheek, and the planes of their faces brushed together in a way so gently intimate that Maedhros’ chest ached. “I have what I need now, that is true enough. May I not also seek out what I _want_?” An impish smile—they were so close together Maedhros could only see it in the creasing around his eyes, but still he knew the expression better than his own name—and then he brought out his most devastating weapon, speaking so that his lips brushed the scarred corner of Maedhros’ mouth. “Please, Maitimo.”

Maedhros had stopped using that name for good after Angband. Then it had felt like cruel irony, a mockery of what he had tried—and failed—to do. _Well-shaped indeed!_ But Maglor was not calling to that time. In his gentle voice, it tugged at something much older—a shared youth, a time when they both had been safe and knew joy.

His brother called to him, spoke of _want_ , and here was what Maedhros wanted: to answer. Only that.

He mustered up his most disapproving older-brother voice. “What, here on the floor? We aren’t animals, Cáno.”

Maglor laughed again, and this time he gave in to the temptation, kissing him until the sound vibrated on his tongue.

~

Maedhros woke early to a blaze of pain—Maglor had taken up much of the narrow bed, leaving Maedhros tucked up against the wall, and he must have scraped his hand across the stones by accident. Still, he felt content. Maglor was warm against his back, in contrast to the chill predawn air. His burnt shoulder only ached a little. He felt settled, and centered, and almost—as if there were some hope again, where there had not been for many years.

They could not be forgiven, nor loved, after all they had done. But they had finally reclaimed a little of their father’s legacy—and they could love one another. That was more than he’d had to go on in so long he’d nearly forgotten what it felt like.

His burnt hand was red and puffy in the dim glow of the dying fire, and more tender than it had been. _Healing_ , he realized with a start, because so many things get worse before they get better. He rose as quietly as he could—rather a challenge, with only one badly burnt hand to maneuver himself upright and navigate his brother’s sleeping form, but he managed without waking Maglor and went out into the slowly brightening gloom.

At first he only thought to deal with nature’s call, and then return immediately to the inviting warmth of his brother’s bed. But the stars still showed overhead, and he was feeling contemplative; he took a seat on the grassy hill beside the cottage, soaking in the peace of the morning. The hill had once rolled down into a meadow—now it sloped directly into the sea, and Maedhros watched the distant waves break with less sadness than he might have.

Maglor joined him some time later, when the smallest stars had disappeared into their pearly backdrop, and only a few bright spots remained. He put an arm around Maedhros, and laid his head against Maedhros’ shoulder. Maedhros turned to kiss his hair, and they stayed like that for a long moment.

“You know,” Maglor said sleepily, “I think I feel a new song coming on.”

Maedhros smiled, indulgent. “The Jeweled Hand, perhaps? There is certainly something of the mythic about it all, I’ll give you that.”

“Hmm. True. No, I was inspired in a more...personal direction.” Maglor tugged at his sleeve until a little shoulder was bared above the collar, then pressed a kiss to the skin there.

Maedhros laughed. “Love poetry? That seems a little pedestrian for you. I thought you were a trailblazer.”

Maglor bit down where neck and shoulder met, and Maedhros could not tell if it was retaliation or foreplay. “Anyone can say something new where no one else has spoken. It takes a visionary to say something new in an arena that has been so thoroughly covered.”

“Ah, there’s the ego I love.” Maglor chuckled and continued his way up Maedhros’ neck, more kisses than bites; Maedhros tipped his head in encouragement. “Well, I have no poetry for you, I’m afraid. I was never known for my musical talents. What can I give you—what am I known for? My overbearing sense of duty? That’s hardly romantic.”

Maglor snorted, his lips closing around Maedhros’ earlobe. Maedhros shivered.

Arien’s arrival was imminent now; the horizon blushed softly pink, and there was only one star still visible overhead. Maedhros’ eyes fixed upon it with sudden inspiration, and he sat forward. Maglor lifted his head, a question in his eyes, and Maedhros turned to grin back at him.

“A star from the heavens, perhaps. Is that not a fitting gift for the brother whose head is ever in the clouds?”

Maglor’s eyes blazed, his smile desirous and half-disbelieving. “I thought we agreed the skies were beyond our reach.”

“So they seemed, until now.” Maedhros stroked along Maglor’s cheekbone with his knuckles. “But so much more is possible today than when we woke yesterday.” And then, lowering his voice to an inviting murmur, “I do not think I could bring it down for myself—but for you, it might be done.”

“For someone who claims no talent for poetry, that was a very fair go at it!”

Maedhros might have responded, but then Maglor was upon him, pressing him back to the grass as the sunrise stained the world in rose and gold.

**Author's Note:**

>  _See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me._  
>  (The title is from Isaiah 49:16, being blatantly misused by this author)


End file.
